


Poetic Confessions

by Cris_C



Category: DreamSMP, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Freeform, Gen, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 06:02:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 5,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30101424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cris_C/pseuds/Cris_C
Summary: A collection of one-shots of various ideas and character interactions through a more poetic interpretation.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3
Collections: QNB_DISCORD_FICS





	1. The Beginning

A swivel of stars and dust, in the riveting scales of his whole being and all he knew. It passes like cloth over delicate white fingers, polished to perfection, hard as porcelain. He brings it to his cracked mask, slashes across, weeping glittering green light in droves of rays through seas of black. 

He passes it off into the ocean of dust, bringing forth towers of stone and sand. Particles coming together to clump into small cubes, molded into circles, shaped into triangles. Lines on lines that dash over gold and white and green with little care as it drapes over shoulders and under feet. The smoldering sand moves like serpents, in winds under talones and dash into the sky. 

He places his fingers over the abyss, moving water into steam, bunching together the mist into clouds. Hands place the pillows softly into the air, covering the dark void in sheets of graying white. The drops of water fall down in cascades, hitting the empty hot sands, grating against stone. He smooths over the clumps of grains and rocks, places pads on sharp shapes and contrast.

His fingers glide swiftly, shaping the lands into hot coals thats rain soon turns into fog, heavy and thick.

Soon the void is full of shape, the world comes to be.

Oceans now storm and ravage the rock, turn the sands to glass.

He stems them gingerly, creates grass, turns rock to deserts, brings forth growth of green.

Veiled in white silks, gold, green light. He steps foot onto the bare lively world. From ash and dust he creates men of gray, piligers. Of oak and dirt, villagers. Cows, sheep, wolves, and everything needed to make the world less boring. He skittered from one wasteland to another, blooming life and stealing it away. Mountains of stones iced over from their height.

Plains turned to desert from heat.

Trees bare of leaves in smoke and smoulder.

He twists the time and space between himself and this land, purple sparks between his fingers, through the pitch black of semi-unbreakable stone. 

The first portal was made in the chasm of a snowy winter biome, where no life but giant white pelted creatures roamed, dead beings turned to bone flitter in magic across the land.

He stepped through the swirling and sparking of time, purple and harsh against the white and black or obsidian within the snow. 

In a land as bare as the last, no life nor light filed. He masked his rage into the steaming melting of red, flowing and ocean in its sisterhood of the overworld. He grated against the void in ever sharpening claws, ripping stone red and sticky, grasses hot and living, blues and purples and people not humane nor barberic in culture into existence. All was angry, all was harsh.

The synergy of the lands, it had order. 

Here he birthed the first beings of flame. Here he created woods of blue and beings tall and lanky with eyes that saw beyond any other beings comprehension, eyes he soon stole to make another realm back in the sisterworld up above.

Within the pita of the earth, blocks of yellow and green and white, to his liking and appearance came to be. One of its kind and one where he’d grow fond of. 

In the abyssal plain, he sat and delicately sculpted the combed land. Hard, firm, and with degree of ease. Towers were erected, the lanky beasts from the nether brought into its lands. 

He spent days, weeks, casting hard obsidian into bone, turning unstable darkness into skin, melding purple magic into flame. 

The beast was long, lanky and fleighty, soaring into the abyss and never straying far.

He made boats that sailed for eons, that created their own civilizations and rested in harmony across the black sea in the sky. 

He watched the world grow, end and start anew. 

Grew bored and split from it all in a timeless gaze of eternity.

Till one day, he blessed the lands once more and created people. They roved lands and jumped into new ones, realms of their own with little halt nor hesitation. His first was a man of abyss.

Small, strange, beastial in nature, with a reflection of the god itself, the mask adorned its face.

He watched the being scamper, watched it eat its own flesh and blood and quiver in its latching of nail and feet. He cast the tiny being into the world of greenery, oak and wood. Watched it forge and cast moral into the world, grow into humanity as it blends in with the rest of all other beings, created with frugality and differentiation. 


	2. Late Night Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strange visit to a villager.

There, against the darkening sky and on his porch stood a man.

Murky greens adorned his fram, hat skewen over sandy blond hair, skin kissed by the sun. Glistening black wings sewn into his back were heaved up from the grown, never grazing its wooden and red sanded surface.

Splotches of dark crimson bleached his skin, his side and slid onto the floor in tiny drips, painting the floor in specks of red I knew I’d never clean. 

The green clad man looked at me, blue electric eyes shining in unbelievable light, lit aflame by some spoken breath of death herself and yet I knew all that was and nothing at all. 

I beckoned him into my home, watched him stumble in, felt my own grapple against code and choice and knew nothing else but to let it reign over me.

I shut the door behind him, bolted it tight. The man washed my home in something intrusive, he walked around it as if he knew every inch, sat at the oak table and chairs as if he owned it himself.

Made it himself.

Yet I know, deep within the core of my livelihood that I had been longer than he ever came to be. Knew more than he ever was. But that didn’t dampen the kindle of oak and sand that was my skin and bone, and didn't aid in refusing the blue eyed being that walked into my home. 

He knocked.

It was significant in every way he could fathom. The wrap of knuckles on wood had never brought forth such a sense of dread yet kindled relief. The man had knocked, stood patiently and waited to be invited. No flash of doors being swung open came to fruition, waking me in the dead of night, just the loud wrapping of knuckles in wood and the sheets hitting the ground softly.

Though his actions were miniscule, not sinister, I ceased to be anything but tense.

Hesitation cradled my footsteps, held my fingers as they searched the cabinets for bandages of any kind. Soon the box was placed onto the table, the light of a lantern held by a chain and the ceiling illuminated the room in warm yellows against the dark oak that made the rest of the house. His hand clasped the handle, my own holding onto the end.

“I got it from here, mate.” His eyes held no such warmth, words brought forth out of habit, meer pleasantries than any form of unburdening. A tilt of my own head, my fingers clasped and unclasped the white box, a ghost if an action and yet at war. 

He waited patiently for me. A glint to his tired riddled face, a slant of knowing within the crease of his eyes. 

I pulled the box back, he let go easily. 

I opened the box, unclasping the latch and showcasing the yard's long of spooled bandage, the brown bottle of antiseptic. A mirrade of other devices littered the box in an orderly disorganized fashion to my own eyes. 

When had I even needed a box such as this. 

No amount of second thought graces my mind as to why I’d need it or when I’d ever used it.

I didn’t recall when I had even gotten it. 

Yet the man didn’t pay me any mind, he instead moved to expose the large wound on his side, sinister and weblike. He winced, face curling inwards in a taut manner, his other hand having swatted off the hat. 

“You know what you’re doing?” 

I blinked and nodded. Though nothing came to mind in how exactly to fix the mess of the man's side, it was crying red and making a mess of the floor without signs of ever ceasing. 

Approaching, my hands deftly moved on their own, a will without aid, muscle memory working on its own as I kneeled there dumbly. The experience was wholly its own, my mind a second passenger to the motions that produced out of thin air. Soon it was done.

I stood up, hands stained and eyes completely enthralled by what I’d done. The man chuckled.

He seemed content with the treatment, amused by the star gazed look in my eyes. 

“Thanks, mate.”

This time, it was kind. It held direction, the words whole and meaningful. I smiled, for what felt like the first time ever, in my casual existence, that only came to be the moment the man knocked on my door, I smiled.

It was new, unusual. The muscles on my face felt odd yet the warmth in my chest felt good. 

He stood up, picked up the hat from the floor and placed it on his head with one hand. Swiftly he pulled the fabric of his clothes back over his side as he made his way back to my door, my own feet padding along as I followed. I opened it for him as he stepped out, turning around to face me he spoke once more. 

“I'll come visit again soon.”

Into the night I saw the man fly, soar through the sky with red sands thrown into a large halo before falling back down to the earth. 

He soared and with it my own feelings were brought forth to the surface. 


	3. One Earthly Wish

Fall 

Fall

Fall

Fall into the deep dark place you call an escape. A place you wish would grant solace to the lack thereof, of any action you claimed to have wrought. 

Fall at the weight of nothing and all, the simple shackles that bind your inaction, paint you fool and lack of character. A bystander to all that occured, to the confusion of country men deemed nothing but dirt and cast out. 

Fall to the notion of your meaningless being, the comb of your hair and the clasped buttons if your shirt that paint you as more than a coded being of sheer existence. 

Fall forth, beg for your forgiveness as you place your head forth onto the ground, your hands onto the floor as you whisper the first nash of my name through teeth with no experience. 

“Falling. They’re falling, my dearest Prime, save them from abyssal consumption and cease their falling, not for me and my nothing of soul but for those who walk and have purpose, who lay foot prints on these lands while I ghosted and made little for my name. Curse it, HBomb. Curse it for then if you need be, my beloved Prime.”

Fall is what you will.

Fall is all you’ll be. In the shape of your hands and in the shoes you fill, for every name you grant to me I will exchange a piece of you. You will fade, you’ll be transparent, not in body but in character.

Fall you will, when you cry, no tears will lay across the floors of every place you go and leave. No shoes will imprint into the ground, not being will recall you.

Beg.

Beg to be a person, one who didnt lay down the moment the world crumbled, the moment all it did was weep and crumble from moving minds and actions that strayed from similarity. 

Beg to be, HBomb. Beg to be a man who is real and true, not a pond in a secluded place where no one will see, where no one will recall. Cast your reel and fish for life, fish with fervor for the life you will be merely tossing back into a lack, not in death but total lack of person, being, soul. No death will bring heaven or hell, no place will welcome you, you'll be existing in nothing and all and yet leave no trace to find you.


	4. Maid HBomb

Am I a man of culture, vying for the next big trend, the path of villany? The creation of hotels? The bed laying of a supernatural egg whose vines invade everything? 

No.

I vy for people, in the form of my skirt, the tucking frill into my hair with ears of plastic perked up into the air with stockings pulled up shaved legs, for I am a man of culture and fitting wholeheartedly into the role of a romantic with questionable wording and phrases for adults as a maid is what I live for. 

In the tint of rose colored faces or the swish and swivel of ears of hybrids, he seeks to embarrass yet aid his dearest masters in all he could. 

I am a man of culture, and though my role is questionable, though my actions gone after today, I live and do as I want and prance behind with mirth in step and tow. 

I praise them and they look at me with eyes shining and seeing nothing of me, the act we place falls and the remember they are people, not the beings that they play and get so invested within the theater that is this place, this stage. 

They get drinks and I get smiles as pay, I HBomb fall for them in a platonic incident. I fall so hard my face aches after the day is done. 

The outfit comes off, it goes into a box under the beams of the warehouse and I go back to being nothing at all, nonexistent. 

I am a man of culture and I vy for my friends. 

I am a man of culture but only in my form of disturbance, not in who I play or wish to be but in what I steal and give. 

For when I go home, I lay awake, and I question what it all amounted to. For when I return I’ll be left out of the story, the act I pulled will never be added. 

I'll be here out of role and never in with the people I care for.

Though that’s alright, that's okay. 

I got a smile or two.

I made fun of Fundy, too.

That's more than enough to get by.


	5. Water Worn Letter

Dear, Phil

I know you don’t know me, 

I know I don’t know you.

I know you have wings though; you can fly and seek escape in the polar caps of the north. 

I know they are grand and black, vulture in nature and suiting of the title,

Harbinger of Death

I know much like you, you haven’t soared in a while.

I know more than anyone the pain of being deprived of something habitual. A part of your being.

I haven’t touched the waters of salt, the great expanse of sea in some time. 

I haven’t breathed the same way you haven’t.

We haven’t breathed the place of our ancestry; our innate and instinctual needs.

I don’t fear what it may bring, I fear what it may be invaded by.

I know you fear the nets that may be launched into the sky, catching you like a web in a spider's hold, clipping you of your wings, your respect. 

It’d be shameful to live that way.

I know, much like myself, no greater crime is to be deprived of the adornment of our bodies that symbolize our homes, such as your wings, such as my crowning jewels of spartan eyes.

Our destined paths may never cross,

We may never meet,

But I hold my own and hope as a fellow being,

Seen by the world as assortment and hunt for gold,

That we may be packed together when times are dire.

Hold my teeth to my fingertips, my oath to you in blood

Black bird of deathly skies.

From one heart to another,

A being of similar state,

Coward in our actions,

Flaky in our distaste,

A friend,

Niki


	6. Missing you, from Purpled

We used to play in the garden, outside the black walls of your home. Away from your family and away from the war. 

You’d come in uniform, and I’d help you take it off, the cuffs, the blue coat. We’d toss it under the tree near the pond and we’d run through the field far, far beyond the barn, into the forest where a large pit will come to be, in a distant future without you or me. 

I remember those days, before the war escalated, when I wasn’t on a side, when I had no faces. We’d play in the garden, far beyond the barn, away from your family outside the black walls.

I loved you so much. I’d choked on my spit when I heard you died, for a country and plastic discs you threw away one of your coded lives.

I imagine your body, turning to cloud before it hit the ground you’d vanish with eyes frozen still, it’d haunt my dreams, it haunts me still.

“Purpled, I’m doing this for my people, my men.”

“Have you forgotten, I am one of them?”

You’d still, you'd gape. As I held your hand you realized your fate. You ceased to speak, we ceased to be.

All I have now is the memories of the garden beyond the barn, beyond the walls, beyond the family that was nothing at all. 

I had you, you were my all, now I have skill, apprenticeship, no friendship at all.

I cling to those memories, windswept sand into air, leaving me as I shovel it back into a hole filled bucket, fleeting and taxing.

I cried when I heard your last death. I begged it to be false, I cried and I cried and I hit the floor, the concrete the whole place shook and I didnt know what to do. 

I didn't know what to do without the memory of you. What am I supposed to do? What do you want to do? What would you have done if you’d lived on? 

Please tell me, please tell me.

I miss you.

I miss having you.

I made a grave for you in the garden. Your coat, the blue one is still under the tree.

I visit you every day.

I slept by you that night. I miss the memory of you. 

Im sorry.


	7. First Time?

Rain pelted down on him, heavily and bruising. Sirens and the sounds of metal thumping foot falls chased after his very shadow, large and with beaming weapons of light.

“HALT!” It strained, metal in screech, fake vocal cords heaving forth the alphabet into understandable phrases. “YOU ARE IN VIOLATION OF PRECINCT CODE 303: OWNERSHIP OF WEAPONS CONTRABAND.”

He scoffed, his breath leaving his mouth in a flash of white smoke. His lungs and nose burned from the cold, his hair and beanie stuck to his face. 

Rounding a corner, foot clashing into the concrete he swung his hand upwards and pointed a gun, one mystifying into being in blue squares of light just as the policing android rounded after him. 

A thin white laser shot a neat and beautifully rounded hole straight through its circuits, the metal body flung back as he turned and ran, men of flesh and bone dancing over the heap of metal after him.

_ They just don’t give, won’t they. _

Soon he was in a crowd, colors and towers higher than the sky bordered clouds. Machines on four legs climbed over walkways, cars whizzed by, inches off the ground, people of different shapes, mechanical installations walked by in clumps. He heaved, swiping at his wrist to pull up a wayward map, it flickered and fizzed before dissipating completely. 

He cursed and pushed forward into the crowd, men in blue hot on his heels forced people aside, swears and shouts escaped bystanders. 

_ Fuck, fuck! _

“Need a hand, pretty boy?”

A grasp of his sleeve, a hand pushed his head down and dragged him in a different direction. 

“Who the fuck are you? What are you doing?”

“The guy who’s saving your british ass, now shut up and walk.” 

Will blinked, his eyes scanned over the holomask the man wore, horns that curved around his head and framed his face, metal skull that shined a subtle baby blue. A goat, a scary one at that. 

He peered ever so slightly behind him, watched bodies slither past and push against him, watched blue clad men be washed away by the sea of people. 

He heaved a sigh and walked forward, gloved hands tugging him along into pearlescent streets of luminary light, signs taller than life and people who looked more metal than human. 

What a place to move to. 


	8. Past Long Gone

Lava crackles, a far distance from him, reflected over the visor and mask he wore. His eyes were trained ahead, trident in hand.

“You recall the old days?” 

His ear flicked at the noise, it pierced through the large cubed room, unmuffled even by the casing of hard rock and red molten pools. 

“I recall a lot of things.” 

Eyes narrowed.

The voice, the man, chuckled behind him. 

“What do you remember?” 

Sam swallowed. 

Distant times came to him, in velvet and orangey flicks. The distant feeling of fingers on his face, a thumb grazing his bottom lip. He felt his own hand, in this time, on this day come up to his face, touching his cheek where he knew the voice, beyond the cascade of heat, would have placed dark abyssal colored palms upon.

His lip wobbled, teeth sank in to keep his composure. 

“I remember a different man. One that died ages ago.”

The voice was silent. 

Time ticked by, in the occasional pop of air rising from magma, in the way he timed his breath. 

“I miss—“ 

And he strained his ears, held his breath.

“I—I haven’t died. I'm still here.” 

He closed his eyes, squeezed them shut. His front legs bent and forced him to lay. His hands still gripped the trident, tight. Had it been any other material it’d have snapped in half. 

“I don’t know you anymore. You are anything but the boy I met all those ages ago. You don't make crowns of ivy and petal, you burn them.” He breathed, the mask over his face suffocating. “You don’t hold things with love, you break them, Dream.”

And his heart ached, burned within his chest and constricted his lungs. He couldn’t breath and he could, he felt the fur over his body bristle, allowing the claws of his legs to dig into obsidian and leave jagged marks. 

“I was doing it for everyone, for  _ you _ , Sam.” It sounded desperate, a brittle thing against dried and broken walls within his throat. 

“I never asked for a war. I didn’t ever want you to hurt  _ children _ , Dream. Kids, for Abyssals sake!”

Silence. 

Again, silence.

And he grew agitated, he felt pain over again, as if the action were being performed once more right before his eyes. When a small thing, clad in green and skin deeper than in shade than any room washed away of light. A cape nipped at its ends in the shape of wings and tail, he turned and he left. He left and he changed. 

Sam didn’t know how to feel then, shock settled into his bones, and he chose not to feel anything at all.

Numbness set in that night, oh so long ago when Dream chose to storm into a box and killed a group of country men. 

Solidified when he shot a child dead. 

Yet, now, in the seclusion of a prison all for one man, the rippling of feeling finally came forth. A dame finally cracked open and he shook like a leaf in the wind. 

But he didn’t cry, not for this man, and not for his memory. 


	9. You and I

Shoot me, between my teeth and tongue. 

Hurt me, like every dirty mistake you’ve made.

Leave me, as the fires you made.

Kiss me, hard and dirty with hands colored red.

Grip my blue sweater as I pull your tattered coat.

In this white endless place, on the floor we elope.

You grew tired of my staring, of my silence.

I grew tired of doing absolutely nothing at all.

Place your lips on my neck, I'll tug at tousled hair.

Hate me, as if I were the cause for your madness.

Let the endless span of white heal the wounds that never came.

I press fingers into sword split skin.

You dip nails into alcohol torn muscles.

We meld. 

Bare and vulnerable.

It's cold. Though your rage is hot, angry.

Coals on my skin, burning honey colored skin black and red.

It's catastrophic. 

“I hate you.”

Burning, burning into the comfort of your formless body. 

“You despise me.”

Grip my blue sweater, as I tug at your tattered coat.

Leave me, fleeting in your touch and prolonging hell.

End me in the clasp of your hands on my throat.

Kill me a million times over.


	10. Wounds Old

My back is whipped, blue and pale. The gashes of deep rooted stems and a tail. Gone for little time, pain fresh and breeze like hair grazing neck or fingers lightly touching skin. They are there, my spindly wings and yet they aren’t.

You see me there, as I move to accommodate when I forget they’re gone, hidden under white sweatshirt and sweaters. Your eyes crease, your red gloved hands twitch.

You approach to ask but fleet around it. 

They’re still there, my spindly wings and yet they aren’t.

You’ve never seen them, for if you did in the light of day they’d burn to mist. 

For if you did at night, you fear them.

Pain fresh, movement buzzing through nerves that long since have been robbed of my body. The balance I once had, gone with the blue and pale tan tail. 

Your eyes crease under the mask you wear, your fingers twitch with the inkling and need to know.

For my wounds have healed, my mind hasn’t.

In the brisk splash of water, the muddled of time. Clothes left discarded on the shore line. 

You saw my back for the first time.

For when you, my friend, cast your brown gaze upon it, left dark sun kissed fingers dip into the roots, the grooves where my spindly wings and blue pale tail once was, they flamed.

Passionate about your disgust, in those who harmed me. And I wondered where it came from.

Where such hate stemmed where I, the victim, couldn’t kindle a lick of a flame to my assailant.

You cried for me, wetting the red and black mask more, never refusing to take it off even while swimming. The babbles if your accent skirted the brash wash of words that spoke of such hate.

Then I realized how much you cared. How much I didnt need redemption.


	11. Children of Woe

No place on earth for me. No place of home to be.

I walk these halls, I know these walls, the tatter of paint and skin.

Oh piano, dearest me, play your hollow tune.

When you grovel and when you shriek, oh piano you fool.

You stare through the holes in the walls, peek through the very fine doors.

Peer into conversations, of men, of women, of tools.

Sweet little boys, of orange and blues, greens and fiery reds.

Boys so young, soldiers of fools, willing to throw you off dead.

“Scream, to be real and human, a man with a will of his own.”

“Scream to be, oh dearest HBomb, dont be one of the fools.”

Oh piano, how you shriek, a player of things off tune.

The men who grace your keys spring you forth.

The women play you for tools.

How you twiddle your thumbs, in high chairs and rooms filled with rum.

How round cheeks sink in and the darkness rolls in, how the war is tearing you apart.

Oh, so be and oh to be, kiss our heads and stow us away.

Oh to be or not to be in a world of crescendo oh rule.

Hug and tug us away.

Take us to places you stay.

The land between being and not, the place you leave no trace.

“Scream! Scream! Oh dearest HBomb, scream for the sweet little boys!”

Oh my dearest HBomb heed the powerful ploy.


	12. Hey, How’ve You Been

Hey sweetheart 

Where have you been

In the wake of this mass grave

Do you blame me

For the things I did to that man

A brother in arms

Hey

Where You've been is hell

In the wake of a great new world

Do you still care

For the things you killed and destroyed 

A useless guy

Hey baby

Where have you gone

In the wake of this winter mast

Do you remember me

For the touch I left on your body

A branded heavy weight on your ring finger

Hey man

Where are you

In the wake of a long dead war

Do you think your worth a breath

For all the poison you stirred into water

A slow aching and healing process

Hey doll

Where are all your friends 

In the wake of the end

Do you cry for me

For the shards of myself in all your friends I left behind 

A blanket of hurt over ever body known to man

Hey amor

Where's that fleeting soul 

In the wake of open clear skies

Do you feel bad for me

For the long late nights 

A white sheet to hide my shame

Hey birdy

Where are those fluffy things on your back

In the wake of a spring afternoon 

Do you still feel the burn of nerves fraying

For the flightlessness you breed

A small thing in a great big world

Hey

They’re gone

Its colder than you remember 

Its a ghost but it gets better everyday 

I soar in more ways than one now

A large soul where yours got snuffed too quick

Hey

How do you move on

Hey

I dont know

Is it hard

When you cling for too long it is

Ive let you go

Im glad

I’m sorry

I know

Forgive me

No.


	13. Your Missing Something

In the midst of conversation invading ears, all washes out. Eyes haze and it’s merely a distraction, one that turns fuzzy and eyes cast down onto fingers or polished wooden tables. Maybe in the night as you stare into the sky, the loose strands of another being tug and pull you away from your work, leaving you a statue on a wooden pathway with the wind breezing past locks of raven hair that fall loose from your beanie.

There in the fading escape as you slowly drop from the dark into the great sea of white you clasp hands over your suit jacket, bring fidgeting fingers to your face where a large imposing scar brakes you. The canvas of your face forever ruined. Covered by a mask of color. It halts you.

Swaths of green, gold, and white that seems to fade into the place, this white petaled garden. They gleam at you, through the cross of green oozing light from the face of a being so grand it dwarfs you. 

It pokes you, with porcelain fingers and nips at your masked face with inclination. 

“Well, I’ll be.” Voice all grin and shine, it sounds on the verge of laughter at any given second. “Half of you is here, how is that?”

You ponder the same. Question how this moniker came to be, chose to be its own person and die. 

The deity turned you within its fingers, spoke at you sweetly, too sugary to be desired. “When was the last time you truly laughed?” 

You thought, you pondered. You’ve laughed but it felt stranger, disingenuous. You’d leave meetings, you’d leave events and you'd feel tired, as if you forced every smile, every giggle through a throat that forgot how to do all those actions.

You recall the time you truly felt joy, fleeting in the way it struck you down, like a switch pulled and dissipating. That day, when you believed it to be pretend, that day you truly let yourself go and it was denied. 

You remember it flicker away, be snuffed out, feel fear as grand as the day you lost half your sight, it was truly a death of greater meaning. Not in life but in self. 

“You poor thing.”

Its words were sugary sweet, too much to be desired. It lit anger within you as it spun you around like a toy, as it played with what was stolen, before it got rid of you. Launching you back to your physical being. Letting you fester in the windy, dead night.


	14. Lost

Dang. The woods are far vaster than I imagined, they crawl into the sky and into the horizon. Every branch is a menace to my twin sported horns and I sure as hell can't stand it.

These boots are muddy and this suit is fucked, though i move through it all like water. Its been a while, since ive seen civilization. Since I remember the smell of smoke and the brief sharp pain akin to heart burn.

Jesus. The woods are far longer than I remember, they stem so long like foot soldiers going into war. Every twig is a bomb in the quiet of the night, so encompassing and scary. 

My hair is cold and so is my breath, or I at least can tell by the way it fogs into white smoke in the cool or warm air. The sensation is gone, and I can't feel a thing.

I can’t feel a thing, I don't know if I should be scared of that or not.


End file.
